


Answered Questions from Theatrical Muse for Ethan Rayne, Two

by lycomingst



Series: Beloved Chaos [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-08
Updated: 2010-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lycomingst/pseuds/lycomingst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I played Ethan Rayne at "Theatrical Muse" on LJ for a few years. This is a series of questions I answered in Ethan's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Answered Questions from Theatrical Muse for Ethan Rayne, Two

**Write a Letter**

Dear City Fathers (or Mothers, if applicable) of Sunnydale:

Really, you have disappointed me. I understand that your ~~charming~~(well, no) out-of-the-way little town no longer exists. Still, I feel as though some disapproval of your actions should be recorded.

You had a Hellmouth. It's as if you had a Las Vegas of Evil. (Las Vegas, Nevada is the Las Vegas of Sin which is usually an altogether different thing than Evil. Just to clarify.) Granted there is a Hellmouth in Cleveland. But even demons, though they are predatory and narrow-focused, are not stupid. They'd rather winter in California than Ohio.

Given the right management, what could you not have accomplished? Even with the regular unexplained disappearance of friends and relations, humans continued to live in Sunnydale. There were like flocks of sheep which you could have allowed to be culled at regular intervals and at an exorbitant price by the tourist demon. Keeping a tight lid on the ratio of demon to human would have allowed you to reap the benefits of your situation for many years.

But as I've seen so often happen, you allowed greed for power to overcome your good sense. One would think you would have learned after the Mayor's debacle. Was it the vacuum of power after his demise that allowed The First to establish its toehold? Does no one understand the symbiotic relationship of good and evil? And if The First had won, where would we all be? I venture not one of you asked yourself that. As a worshipper of Chaos myself, I can assure that without Order, Chaos is meaningless.

Now your little goldmine is simply an unexpected chasm in the freeway. I'm appalled by the waste.

Yours truly,  
Ethan Rayne

 

**Describe your worst failure.**

As opposed to my best?

I find it hard to believe that you have your correspondents shuffling through their pack of dispiriting memories to find the one that rubs them the rawest. And then, to carry the playing card metaphor perhaps beyond its graceful end, have them lay it face up for the world to see. Are these people (or in some cases, I suppose, beings) so cowed?

They should ask themselves, have I ceased to exist?. The answer being no, they should realize that they haven't had their worst failure, yet. Whatever setbacks they've had should be regarded as learning opportunities.

Let us take a hypothetical case. A man, rather dashing and in the prime of life, finds himself incarcerated under a totally extra-legal perversion of a civilized legal system. All because he offended some humorless guardians of public decency with a bit of harmless fun. Should he blame himself for their overreacting? Or should he remind himself (well, perhaps, this is his own failure), again, to leave before his joke is discovered.

Having been banged up in a small cell, does our picaresque hero despair over his sins? No, he takes it as an opportunity to learn more than he ever wanted to know about small town life in Missouri from a talkative and very lonely, young guard. Being pleasant results in all sorts of little comforts in these situations and durance need not be vile while it lasts. I'm just pointing out that having misstepped and been caught out (which is my definition of failure), there are better ways to spend your time than fingering your beads and scouring your soul.

There may come a time when the (again) strictly hypothetical hero sees a payback one of the authors of this draconian response to a mere jest. He might take it, but he would be more circumspect (and really rather amusing). And he would leave **before** his role was discovered. Thus, supporting the thesis that failure can be called thus, only if one doesn't learn from it.

**Write about an overheard remark or secret that you were not supposed to have heard.**

I've done some scouring of my mind, thinking on this one. I'm trying to bring to mind a situation in which I would expend energy on the thoughts of others or having overheard their secret dialogues, would remember them. As they say in the cowboy movies, (which, by the by, I understand are coming in fashion again, only delightfully modified) (see, I can't start the subject of what others are doing without wandering off from it) "slim pickings".

It may be that I grew this callousness in my father's house. No one there kept feelings, though strictly about one another's failings, secret. Father would frequently point out my inadequacies, as a son, scholar, athlete, or bearer of his family name. My sister and my mother were often critiqued as well. Alas, often their answer to this was to recount some recent transgression of mine to deflect the tirade. It was, of course, regrettable that I provided them with so much ammunition, but I was a wayward boy.

I don't recall anyone drawing into shadowy corners to whisper about an annoyance that one was loath to bring up. And if I overheard my faults discussed, no doubt I'd hear a continuation of the recitation over the dinner table. So, in the interests of inner tranquility, I stopped listening altogether.

Oh, I've just thought of an instance of overhearing. I was in a rather posh bar in a South American country, one of the nicer ones. I had just finished a job for an importer; I'd spread a spot of chaos in a rival's supply line, wrapping everything in red tape and lost forms and balky bureaucrats. Easy money and I was feeling quite flush. I saw quite an attractive young man eyeing me. He would chat with his friend sitting with him and then flash a smile in my direction. It seemed a pleasant way to spend an evening, so I went to sit next to them.

I believe his name was Carlos, or Andres. I've forgotten. Anyway, he spoke excellent English, his companion, less so; when Carlos (let's call him that) translated for his friend, I assumed that bland but friendly, non-committal smile one does. I believe they thought I was American and therefore spoke only English. As I consequence, I found myself listening to rather rude things said about me in Spanish. I learned I was to wake the next morning bereft of my virtue and my money, if I awoke at all.

Needless to say, that's not how it turned out. I insisted on buying my new young friends a special drink, made to my direction, and handed over to them by me. I stayed for a few more moments to watch them taste and admire it, then I excused myself, saying I'd be right back.

I left the room and soon, the hotel. Imaging the young men awakening the next morning as braying asses, the tumult that would ensue, the vengeance that would be sworn; well, it warms a mage's heart.

As for overhearing things that are disagreeable. Others being bitchy or unflattering. My stance is: I'm probably saying the same about them. And my opinion is the important one.

**Dream House**

Well, it's not in a small city in England that gets a regular influx of tourist carriages in the summer filled with foreign holidayers who are there to visit the birthplace of an author few of them have read. I spent my formative years in such a place and although it made me the man I am (and aren't you glad?), I'd be more content to live in a rat's maze than to go back.

I'm very fond of the sun. And places where it most often shines. It's acceptable in warmer climes to sit and absorb the sun's warmth, languidly; there is no mandate to rush about, doing...well, whatever those who rush about, do. So, I suppose I would 'hang about the earth's waist' as Hamlet has it. I would, however, demand a plentiful supply of temperate breezes.

As to the house itself. Hmmm, what do you need in a house? A bedroom, surely. A bath. Closets. A balcony. A telephone. Have I just described a hotel?

But all this is just meandering, isn't it? I've been on every continent in my search for this or that artifact, or to persuade some mage, witch, demon to show me their bag of tricks, (all right, not Antarctica, for although penguins dress better than most of my associates, their interest in magic is nil). The point being, I've not stayed anywhere. I've never wanted to. Why would I want a house?

I've taken root nowhere. Think of me as a dandelion puff (a devastatingly handsome and witty one), submissive to the winds. I've given my life to Chaos. That means change for its own sake. I can't conceive of a life that would include looking at the self-same ceiling every morning when I awoke. Oh dear, I do believe I've scared myself with that image.

I really must stop thinking on this subject; it's giving me the vapours.

**Generally speaking, how do you think others perceive you?**

"It's strange. That we should be sitting here. Together," Giles said.

"Strangest thing in the world." Ethan considered the thought. "Well, maybe not the strangest thing in our world." He took a long drink of his pint.

"No. You're right. Still, odd," said Giles, his ability to carry on a lengthy conversation being steadily curtailed in proportion to his beer consumption.

Ethan had called him and set up a meeting, shortly after he'd popped up in his office, after a few years of incarceration that was mostly Giles' doing. Ethan was inclined to take a philosophical view of the thing; cost of doing business, what he would have done if roles reversed, spilt milk, not burning bridges, etc. Now Giles had something he wanted: money. Ethan would sell him information.

So on neutral ground they met. And once the business that brought them here was concluded, since they were very old friends, perhaps they let their guard down more than they usually did.

"It's a small world, magic and demons. And all," Giles' hand waved to include the whole of the mystical realms. "All very," he paused in thought, "sixth...generation?..no, that's not right. Six degrees of separation." His voice had triumph in it.

"Yes?"

"For example, Andrew."

Ethan looked at him, perplexed. "The Prince?" he asked.

"No," said Giles. He was in the middle of swallowing some of his beer and, starting to laugh, he sprayed some about. "Not him. Andrew. My assistant, or the Junior Watcher, or whatever he's calling himself this week. He told me a story not too long ago, and eventually, I realized he was talking about you."

"Me? I don't remember an Andrew. Is he dishy?"

Giles gave it a moment's thought. "Not particularly. He was telling me about his brother. You know his brother. In Sunnydale. Knew. Knew his brother."

"Did I? Fascinating. Tell me more. After you buy another round."

"Oh, very well." Giles made his way to the bar and back, bringing two more pints with him. "Where was I?" he asked.

"Talking about me, I think," said Ethan.

"Yes, it seems you met Andrew's brother about the time of the candy incident." Giles' eyes turned cold and hard. "Babies, Ethan. God, you are a bastard."

"Well, you can thank your deity that I seem to be an ineffectual bastard. Nothing happened. And it was quite upsetting for me, too. Seeing the old Ripper of my youth swaggering about. With a Watcher's sensibilities."

"Wish I would have popped you one." Giles started in on his new beer. In a moment or two, he seemed to mellow and returned to his story. "Andrew was telling about his brother, um..um, Tucker, that is. How Tucker had aspirations. Wanted to be a mage. And how he ran into this fellow who seemed to know everything. Andrew said his brother went on and on about him."

"Did he? How do you know it's me?"

"Time line. Description. Andrew's very retentive when he wants to be. Said you gave...um...Tucker the idea for the devil dogs at Buffy's prom. And if that doesn't sound like typical Ethan..."

"That sounds vaguely familiar. Yes, in Willy's. Charming demon dive. A rather raw youth. Dark hair, spaniel eyes. I did the best I could for him. Quite taken with me, was he? It's so seldom I get to be mentor. Seems I'm quite good at it. And the devil dogs? How did that work out?"

Giles shook his head. "The boy went to a lot of trouble. Buffy stopped it, of course. The prom was quite a nice to-do. Andrew says he's brother is floundering around. Not much follow through."

"That's what I thought, in our brief acquaintance. Still, he could judge quality when he saw it." Ethan looked into his almost empty glass. "Almost time for another, eh? Your shout, I think."

**Mother**

It was tea-time and Ethan and Rupert were rather stoned. They had spent the train trip up from Oxford giggling at whispered asides to one another and sometimes at nothing at all.

Ethan needed to visit with his parents at this end of term in hopes of screwing some extra quids out of his father. Rupert accompanied him because they were always together now and as an excuse for Ethan to get away as quickly as possible. I've promised Rupert I'd go with him on a stroll across the Dales.

Just before they got to Ethan's parents' door, he said to Rupert, "Listen, I've rather played up your background. Family and what not. To impress them. Just go along with it, Ripper."

Rupert gave him a slightly glassy-eyed smile. "What am I supposed to be? Minor royalty? 69th in line for the throne? Shouldn't you call me 'your grace' instead of 'Ripper'?"

"You needn't be anything so lofty as that to have Betty and Ted fawn over you. I've given them the idea that you have a little more money than them and perhaps there's a peerage or two on your mother's side. My parents are simple souls who only want to claw their way up the social ladder one rung at a time. Oh, and I have to remember that 'Betty' is now 'Lizabeth'. Oh, doesn't she look daggers at her husband when he forgets!"

"Never mind that," said Rupert. "the question is, will there be tea? I'm starving."

"You're so charmingly practical," said Ethan, giving him a quick kiss before unlocking the front door. They walked in and Ethan shouted, "Hello, anybody here? Shop!" He clapped his hands several times.

"Ethan?" his mother's voice came from the back of the house. "Stop that at once!" She appeared and walked toward them, carrying a vase filled with fresh flowers, which she lowered and turned a cheek for Ethan to kiss. "Well, you're here at last."

"Yes, Mother, and I've brought...Rupert. Mother, Rupert Giles. Rupert, my mother."

"How do you do, Mrs. Rayne? It's very nice of you to invite me," Rupert said, then quickly bit down on his inside cheek to keep from laughing.

"Oh, you're very welcome. It's nice to see Ethan choosing more wisely than he has in the past," she looked at Rupert with approval, pleased with his manners and his clothes. Ethan had insisted on his wearing a jacket and trousers. Ripper, love, we don't want to frighten the natives; it's about getting some of the readys out of them, so that we can continue on our merry way. Think of it as drag.

"Mother, can we have tea? Before we wither and die?" Ethan asked.

"Yes, of course. Your father is going to be very late tonight, so we may as well go ahead. We won't wait for Angela; she has absolutely no sense of time. I'll just put the water to boil. Ethan, come carry things from the kitchen. Rupert, why don't you make yourself comfortable in the sitting room?" she indicated a room off the foyer.

Ten minutes later, tea was set up in the sitting room and the young men had their plates full and were trying not to consume the small sandwiches and cakes too wolfishly. "I'm sorry you see us living rather primitively just now, Rupert. Having to 'do' for ourselves. " Mrs. Rayne said. "I've had to let another girl go. I blame the war. Everyone getting ideas above their station. Nowadays these girls just want to laze about and listen to Baba records."

"ABBA, Mother. They're called ABBA."

"Yes, well, if you say so. I'm sure, Rupert, that your family is finding the same thing. About getting good help. It's just a struggle to live decently, isn't it?"

Rupert thought of the stories his grandmother told of following her first Slayer through the endless, nameless mountains of South America on a burro, or tracking the second one down in a nomadic tribe in the Sahara. "Yes, it can be difficult, at times," is all he said.

"So, Rupert, are you going into the law like Ethan?"

"Rupert is reading English, Mother," Ethan answered for him. "He's very good. He's taught me all sorts of new words." Ethan went on in a sing-song voice, "Cleromancy, pyromancy, scapulimancy." Standing up, he went behind his mother and acting as though he was merely refreshing his tea, he made began rolling his eyes at Rupert.

"Ethan, stop acting the fool," his mother said. "I don't know what you're doing but I'm sure it's vulgar. And do try to act sensible around your father tonight."

"Mother, I'll be a lamb. What are the chances of his advancing me some money, do you think? Have you mentioned it to him? You promised, you know. I've been counting on you, Mother." Ethan smiled at her. "Have you been a dear?"

"I've done what I could. Just don't antagonize him. Try to show some interest in the business. He seems to like that," Mrs. Rayne said. "I always find it very effective." She looked at the empty serving dishes. "You young men seem to have eaten everything. Shall I bring more?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Rayne. It was wonderful, but I couldn't have another thing," said Rupert.

"Oh, no more, Mother. Rip...Rupert and I will go and shower now, and unpack." Ethan turned a determinedly innocent face to Rupert. "Shall we get cleaned up? Doesn't a shower sound refreshing?"

Rupert answered, matching Ethan's tone, "Yes, just the thing after a long journey."

Mrs. Rayne said, "Yes, I think that's a very good idea. And no loud music. Now, run along."

"Oh, Rupert," Ethan said, "do come. I'll show my room. I've something I want you to see there. You'll like it." And with that the two young men bounded up the steps.

**What does 'comfort' mean to you?**

It's a yin-yang thing, isn't it? One doesn't appreciate comfort unless one knows the opposite. For instance, because I've undergone the ritual involved in learning the ... (one really can't render it in English) spell which entails standing for 24 hours, a good deal of it on one foot, I now appreciate a good sit-down much more.

I'm British by background and we do like our comfort. It's all that nasty weather. You know, the "...warm hands, warm face, warm feet. Wouldn't it be loverly!" sentiment. One takes it with one wherever one goes. So it might translate, in a tropical clime, to a cool drink in the shade, but the thought's the same.

To use more aggressive phrasing: I take comfort. I take comfort in a job well done. To see hapless humans dealing with whatever I've conjured, to see their well-regulated lives turned topsy-turvy, that gives me a warm glow.

It's true. My idea of comfort is to spread discomfort.

**What is your favorite retreat from the world?**

I find that sex works well for that.

Luckily, I've been, well, I almost said blessed. That is to say, I've always been open to experience. I have my preferences, much as everyone else, but 'why be small-minded?' has been my rallying cry.

If I daydream, when the stresses of causing mischief to the pompous gets overwhelming, of sun-kissed cabana boys, that's all very well and good, but I've been known to be perfectly happy as the indulged plaything of a well-endowed (in all senses of the phrase) widow for a time. Indeed, if I didn't insist on trying to engage this lovely lady in actual conversation once or twice, I could very well still be ensconced on that private island with the momentous decision of the day being, ice or no ice in the martini?

Still, the point being, if I need to retreat from the world, whatever's handy does fine.

Needless to say (but when did that stop me?) I take endless and enormous comfort in not leading the life my parents planned for me.

**Lamest Excuse**

Who was that very rangey cowboy star with the rather sashaying walk who said, "Never apologize, never explain."? I'd like to think if I ever felt the need for an excuse for my actions that I have a sterling one, but as it is, really, I don't think it's come up.

First of all, I try to be unavailable by the time any explanation would be needed or expected. Out of town, out of the country, out of the hemisphere. Whichever seems most prudent.

Second, why would I want to offer an excuse? Those to whom I've extended myself and my talents obviously wanted or needed them. They've either hired me or their dull lives needed some chaos introduced into them. I have to admit that on occasion, on rare occasion, the magic didn't quite go as I envision it would. But that's magic, isn't it? It's not the multiplication table; if there weren't mystery, where'd be the fun?

There may have been more mundane situations where I've felt the need to say something to explain events that have taken place. I usually say, "I was drunk". I don't know if that qualifies as my lamest excuse; it's really the only one I've ever bothered to offer.

 

**What doesn't kill you can make you stronger.**

I don't know about making you stronger but I do know that what doesn't kill you can still leave great bloody bruises.

In addition, I'm not sure that this straight-backed bromide has much to do with my life. I've been brought close to death by a demon or two; I don't really see how that has made me stronger. More cautious, perhaps; more careful to secure an escape route before I seek to tangle with one, it's had that effect.

It's not out of line to ask, I think, how the Slayer batting me about was supposed to improve my strength? It didn't improve my muscle tone; again, all I got out of it were black-and-blue marks in the shape of a tiny fist. And all that hectoring from her high moral plane. If she's not careful, she'll be turning into a middle-aged harridan. With very unattractive lines about her mouth from pursing her lips in disapproval.

Her assaults on my person didn't kill me; neither did it dissuade me from trying to inject some refreshing chaos into her life, every chance I got. Her and her little Watcher, too.

No, no, I'm afraid this precept is just meaningless blather to me. Sorry.

**Have you ever woken up in the morning and not remembered what you did the night before?**

You mean, my early twenties? That's the sort of answer you expected me to make, isn't it? Yet, it isn't true.

Any mage who makes a habit of summoning and indulging in incapacitation is one who will suffer the fate of Monty Python's parrot, that is, he will soon be an ex-mage.

I put long hours in studying the arts I'm proficient in. I'm certainly not saying that I don't like a bit of the grape and the grain, but I like my wits about me, thank you.

The chaos I strive to create doesn't spring from some liquor or drug haze inspiration. Perhaps there's a paradox about it. I've used my logic to set up scenarios in which the participants I've chosen are whirled about; they are (I feel nautical) anchorless in the sea of confusion I've created.

And, lastly, what's the point of having a bit of fun if you're not going to remember it?

**Friends**

I always think "having friends" is over-rated.

This belief is no doubt influenced by the dismal time I spent at school. All that forced comradery. Before I went to boarding school, I could pick and choose my companions. I did not choose very often. I was fortunate in that I was able avoid the bullies (and there are always bullies). I developed charm, to beguile the ones who could be amused, and quick feet to distance myself from those whose only pleasure lay in causing another bodily harm. But the usual occupations of the neighborhood children, puerile games and japes, had little appeal for me. There were a few not-so-usual ones I developed an interest in, but these I had very little chance to explore.

One would think that being sent to the closed society of a boys' school would be a boon to me. However, my father, who already begun to cast a jaundiced eye on me, sent me to an establishment that emphasized hearty sports. My fellow boarders and I had very little in common. I feigned illness a lot to get out of those miserable games which always seemed to take place in a cold, stinging rain. Of course, the manly types despised me. I was routinely debagged and humiliated. I found it difficult to form lasting, warm associations under those conditions.

At the uni I found more congenial companions. I found someone I thought was my friend. It turned out badly. It was then that I realized there was only one person who deserved my attention and devotion. Myself.

So far that relationship is working out very well.

**Revenge**

Is sweet. Is best served as a cold dish. Is best extracted by living well. Is liable to cost someone an eye.

You get the idea. People are quite obsessed with it. Just ask a Jacobean playwright. It has to do with one's "amour propre" being punctured, doesn't it? We can't really have that. We all think we are the center of the world and that if we are slighted, the world laughs at us.

I would never make any derogatory remarks about this human trait; it's buttered many a slice of bread at my table. I've been hired as nemesis on occasion, anything from inflicting profound embarrassment on the offender to...to...well, let's not put anything in writing.

I may even have fallen prey to this desire on my own account. To revenge myself. When one has the power of magic, chaotic magic, the temptation may be too great not to use it. But I've grown away from that tendency. I felt it should be looked at logically. I am so much more important than anyone else, why should I waste my time thinking about annoying people? I try to deal with anyone who crosses me summarily, then move on. No hatching plans in a dark room to come back later to do him dirt. Honestly, I've had "clients" who want something horrible to happen to primary school teachers who treated them badly. It's as though the victim has lived his life accumulating all the world's goods that he has just so he can pay me to avenge a humiliating dressing-down he got when he was ten. One can only marvel at the energy it took to hang on to that memory.

I may, on occasion, wish to taunt an old friend. But that's because Ripper deserves it. He is so very stuffed full of goodness now, he's quite the Michelin Man of virtue. I just like to let some of the air out, now and then. Calling it revenge is giving him too much importance. Altogether too much importance.

**Tell the truth about something you usually lie about.**

The truth:

1\. Yes, you are boring me.

2\. I'm inviting you back to my room because I'm drunk which makes you more attractive than you are and because you're the only one who responded to my overtures.

3\. No, I won't repay you.

4\. I've heard that joke told much better and I'm only laughing because I want (a job, money, sex) from you.

5\. No, I didn't read the book you wrote but I have read the reviews and it sounded appalling.

6\. Yes, I have read the book you wrote and your plotting and characterizations make me believe you indulge in a little chaos worship yourself.

7\. I did drink all the (scotch, wine, vodka).

8\. I don't think you are the most put-upon, ill-treated ex-spouse in the history of time and I'm listening to your whinging only because you haven't yet paid me in full for my little spell.

9\. I don't remember you.

10\. No, I don't love this song.

And finally,  
11\. Yes, it does make you look fat.

**Summer**

The nice thing about the earth tilting on its axis is that it's always summer somewhere. Has that ever struck you?

There's absolutely no excuse for staying in a dank place that forces you to wear layers of protective and eventually odoriferous clothing, no excuse for one to be sniffling and shuffling along amidst gray buildings and only see gray skies for months when you can go south and be where the naughty earth turns its bottom up to the sun to be warmed. Ah, forgive the flightiness of that image, but if you had been raised as I was, --well, I remember my hands always being cold from October to May. _Warm hands, warm face, warm feet_, Eliza Doolittle had it right; it is loverly.

So, seeing that I try to be sustained by a perpetual summer, I have many fond memories. Beaches, soft tropical breezes, endless languid days. The lovely boys and girls who flock to sunny climes. Many, many fond memories. Shall I share them with you? Perhaps I'll write a book, why should I construct a fantasy world for you for free?

**Photograph**

Ethan was leafing through "coffee table" book of photographs while waiting for his companion. He stopped and gazed intently at one of the pictures, so intently that he didn't hear Carlo come into the room.

"What is?" said the young man, coming over to Ethan and looking over his shoulder. Carlo spoke and understood English better than he let on; he found that tourists he met enjoyed correcting him, that they thought his slight mangling of the language endearing. Ethan was aware of Carlo's deception in this matter, but felt he should be the last person to object to a little hoodwinking of the gullible.

"Oh, just a photograph. It reminds of a place I used to know. A tunnel near the school I used to go to. It was place I used to meet friends."

"It looks very lonely, yes? And frio, cold!"

"Yes, cold and I remember it as usually raining, too. But in the tunnel a chap could escape the weather and the vile school. One would have a fag, a cigarette, and a chat with a sympathetic friend. Many, many happy hours were spent in a tunnel very much like this."

"You met the boys there? Fun, yes?" Carlo asked. Then he sighed elaborately and began to fidget.

Ethan looked at him and smiled. "Shall we go to dinner, Carlito? You look famished."

"Yes, Ethan, dinner now, I think."

Ethan slipped a bookmark to mark his place and went with his young friend to a loud and trendy restaurant to eat.


End file.
